


Part One – A snake is released

by 5972OltonHall



Series: The Vernon Chronicles [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: F/M, Gen, Some main characters from canon have only minor roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:33:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5972OltonHall/pseuds/5972OltonHall
Summary: It is the early summer of 1991 and a simple visit to Bristol Zoo by Harry Potter, an underage wizard as yet unaware of his powers, coincides with the visit of a river god as yet unaware of his divinity. During the visit a snake gets released. The result is a serpentine interweaving of muggle and magical strands as the various characters and authorities react to the disappearance.UPDATE - Most of the remaining chapters are in draft (16 or 17 expected). Struggling for time to proof read, edit and upload for which I apologise. Serial not abandoned. Current status is:-Part 1 - Complete (Chapters 1-8). Dates updated and corrected.Part 2 - Chapter 1 to 3 (9 - 11 in series) now posted. Chapters 12 through 15(?) are in various states of completion.Part 3 - The epilogue to this story (Chapter 16?) also already on line.Note updated 9 September 2019.





	1. Interaction with a snake - unexpected side effects.

**12:57. Saturday 22nd June 1991 – Bristol Zoo Reptile House.**

It is Saturday morning, I am in Bristol at the Zoo and, as far as I am concerned, everything about the day as it has so far progressed has been random chance - but was it?

Following a whim, and to celebrate my 23rd birthday, I’d decided to take advantage of the summer weather, leave London for the day, and visit Bristol Zoo. With hindsight I think it was the West Country drawing me back as the Zoo was one of the few places I have memories of going to on childhood trips with Mum. While I was growing up she hadn’t got a car and in consequence, therefore, we didn’t go to many places outside the village; the Zoo had been one of the few regulars as the church, and several other local groups, organised coach trips.

You often hear, or read, the clichéd phrase “life changing moment” used to describe incidents in which other people have been involved. However, to experience one yourself is an extreme rarity, such that when one does happen it comes as a total surprise.

It was hot outside, so I’d not long entered the vivarium, or Reptile House. Although I didn’t know it yet, for me, Edgar Huntspill, the next few minutes were going to change my life forever.

**13:02. Saturday.**

The disappearance of the glass was undoubtedly my first surprise of the day, the boa constrictor emerging and appearing to talk to the boy with the scar was an even greater surprise; discovering that I could understand the conversation was the total shock. It was entirely unexpected, how could I understand a snake? It had never occurred before, but then again as I didn’t keep a snake as a pet, they weren’t something I came across that often.

A few seconds later, even with my brain still spinning thoughts like a Catherine wheel in full burn, rational thought broke through: as rushing up to random creatures and trying to emulate Dr Dolittle by talking to them is generally the way of madness, even if other creatures also speak in whatever language the snake was speaking in, how would you know you could converse? Was it speaking in snake tongue or just a general animalese? I began to rationalise and a bit of clarity began emerging from the initial shock and it dawned on my sub-conscious that snakes obviously don’t speak the same language as dogs and cats. People, including me, do talk to dogs and cats and similar pets all the time, but they don’t talk back, what communication we get back from them is definitely non-verbal. Clearly therefore either dogs and cats don’t speak at all, or it isn’t in a language that humans can hear or, weirdly, something else very unusual was occurring here.

The family with the fat boy were yelling and making a fuss, that started a general outbreak of screaming and rush for the doors. I was not panicking, well not that much anyway, I was just struggling to make sense of the scene. I am sure the Zoo’s alarms regarding escaped livestock would have been silent to avoid panic amongst the public but someone in the crowd must have activated a fire alarm. Possibly banging open the crash bar on the Fire Door had triggered it. That door was now open and the boa constrictor was quietly gliding towards it, with the public backing away and giving it as much room as they could whilst still trying to get their own groups together.

Once my brain stopped swirling, well maybe not stopped exactly, but, like an old analogue record player definitely notching back from 78rpm to a stately 33, I followed the snake towards the Fire Exit door. This is stupid I’m thinking, well the rational side of my brain was thinking that, but at the same time also irrationally knowing I have to help it, have to talk to it. I have never conversed with a non-human creature, there isn’t really a choice, I simply have to learn more.

The loudspeaker announcement shortly afterwards “Will all visitors to the Zoo please proceed immediately to the exits.” seemed overkill, the snake was harmless, but maybe I was the only one who had heard it say it was harmless and just wanting to go home. Well it is a big snake, and boa constrictors have a bad reputation, I have to grant the management that, and unfortunately the panic created by the incident was spreading.

Time passed in that weird way it does in an emergency and whether it was one, five or ten minutes later I couldn’t tell but the snake and I were outside the snake house hiding in some bushes.  
“You heard me, didn’t you”, it said.  
Without thinking such a thing was impossible, I replied “Yes, you want to escape to Brazil, but first we have to get you out of here without you getting caught.”

The irrational brain was taking over again, the rational screaming - you’re talking to a snake, getting involved. The half brain beginning to evaluate ways of getting a giant snake unnoticed out of the Zoo compound and, for that matter, myself too given that the booming loudspeakers were telling us we were all supposed to be going to the exits, and going now! The rational brain again, how can you be talking and understanding a snake? How does the snake know it needs to go to Brazil anyway, it’s Zoo bred, the sign said so, born here in Bristol? I spied the Zoo security team making their sweep so squatted down, getting as close to the ground as possible, hiding behind a clump of bushes and the ice-cream concession hut.

I had no idea why I was hiding, or why I was getting involved.


	2. The missing alarm bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakdown in the Ministry of Magic’s Auror alert systems aids our snake’s get-a-way.
> 
> With apologies for the long delay taken getting this chapter from draft status to posted.

In the Ministry of Magic alarms should have been sounding following the unexpected, and therefore very probably unauthorised, use of magic in a muggle public place. The detectors only identified use of magic, therefore even if it had been the usual case of accidental magic by an under eleven-year old, that fact had to be established and verified. 

Under normal conditions the Track & Trace system would have sounded a warbling siren to alert the duty team to an incident and set off an amber spot flashing on a wall map to indicate the location. The Auror Office should also have been simultaneously alerted. On receipt of the alert, the AO’s acceptance of it for investigation, should change the status to ‘investigation in progress’ silence the alarm and change the map’s flashing light to a steady amber. If considered to be necessary by the Aurors, and it usually is, a field investigation team is then despatched to the scene. Should the Aurors fail to accept the alert within ten minutes, the final element of the expected process, is the siren swapping over from a soft warble to a loud honking alert with accompanying flashing red light. Depending on what the ‘away team’ discover and report back the last phase is the light either turning green (associated file closed) or blue (File set to investigations on-going). A green is automatically cleared from the board after an hour, the blues remain live until the incident is closed.

That none of this was happening was due to a wiring fault apparently needing a muggle electrician to fix. It had occurred earlier in the morning, whilst British wizards are not stupid overall there is a collective mental barrier to non-magical activity. The outcome is that, sadly, it never occurs to them to learn even the simplest task where that task is muggle orientated; thus, regarding things electrical, even a simple fuse change is usually a concept too far for the average wizard. 

As far as the wizarding world was concerned Voldemort had now been dead for a decade, courtesy of the miraculous survival of the ‘Boy who lived’. One of the unexpected consequences of the war’s outcome was that a few key players in the Ministry of Magic had been forced to liaise with their muggle counterparts. They had seen the advantages in some aspects of muggle technology. This handful of wizards, together with more lowly placed squibs were pragmatically utilising things like programmable calculators as a matter of course. Even the Ministry has been slowly coming to terms with the need to adopt basic muggle technology to enhance their office systems. 

It hadn’t been easy to start the process in the first place and layers of Ministry bureaucracy were continually holding up further progress by adding into the process layers of form filling and pre-action authorisation steps. Whilst Death Eaters convicted of a criminal act had been purged the legacy of old, elitist, family attitudes, plus the concept of blood supremacy which had been spread so vociferously by Voldemort’s supporters during the last war, remained endemic within the Ministry. New thinking was slowly taking root, but the old ideologies remained strong, in particular amongst the higher echelons of management.

It took a while for the wizards to work out that simple reparo spells don’t work on silicon-based equipment. When magic is used near a powered up silicon micro-processer it turns it back to sand, taking with it anything else in the vicinity that encompasses electronic circuitry. The outcome was that they slowly learnt the hard way about the expensive complication of needing to put shields and wards in place so that magic doesn’t blow up electronics. Despite prevention being better than the constant, and expensive, need for repairs it also took them a while to suss out the related (and far less expensive) need for all the electronics to be placed in areas designated as magic-free. 

Basic, analogue, electricity can be adopted as it only interacts badly in a few instances. The main problem with even simple systems is that cable runs can break through shielding and the magnetic fields around some electrical appliances are also disruptive to certain wards, spells and charms. There are several squibs working in the Ministry who have been muggle-trained as electricians, but as a 24-hour call out system had never been implemented, they are not always available. In the overall British wizarding world there are only a very small number, probably measurable on a single hand-span, OK well perhaps a pair of hands and a single foot, who have been to a muggle university to successfully learn advanced electronics!

With one of the most rigid codes of practice to adhere to anywhere the world, the Code of Wizarding Secrecy, getting muggle experts in to do the necessary jobs is not easy. As a consequence it often takes several hours, sometimes even days, to establish the necessary shield cloaks so that even a simple repair can be undertaken. Then of course, just like in the mundane world, you have to find a suitable contractor prepared to take on the job. One of the downsides of obliviating those who have worked for the Ministry previously is obvious - there are no records, or recollections of previous jobs, out in the muggle world. The typical catch22 scenario - every job requires a start from scratch.

This is a step forward for the Mistry, and does mean there can be some interfacing and data sharing with the muggles using what are now standard systems and procedures outside in the mundane world. However, it has a down side too. Today’s incident had hit one of those downside snags, and a major one. A flaw, unnoticed by anyone during testing, had been triggered. What had been missed was an extremely significant fault. 

Today’s problem was that although the relevant magical incident alerts were still coming in, the no power detected trip unit had done its job, and had tripped the circuit as it had been installed to do. Unfortunately, that unnoticed wiring loom error had meant the action of tripping had correctly disconnected half of the system as intended – sadly the wrong half! The override device which had been placed into the system incorrectly should have put the whole Track and Trace alert system back to working in magic only mode. What should have happened was that the old magical methods would have still worked the display board, with staff passing alerts to the Aurors Office by the traditional format of flying memos. This method was slower, required a lot more personnel, but over centuries had been proven to work. As it was the wrong half of the system that got shut down, with none of these intended back-up systems being activated, in consequence no alerts were being displayed.

The relevant junior Minister on the weekend duty rota was Ambrose Campbell. He was also struggling to cope effectively. The middle-ranking boss who should have been in today overseeing the weekend duty teams was dealing with a boggart that had invaded her home during the night. This left Ambrose to cover the shift. He was authorised to cover for her during her annual leave, but rarely had to do so at weekends, when there were no colleagues to liaise with if something out of the ordinary arose. The outcome being that on this particular Saturday he was floundering with the unusual situation, and to be honest, completely out of his depth. That he was in such a flap was mainly because he had been having a relationship with one of the office juniors from the Owl Breeding Permits division. Last night they’d had an acrimonious break-up and he was, therefore, decidedly liverish from a subsequent heavy session with a couple of bottles of undiluted fire-whisky. 

To give him some credit he had seen there was a problem earlier on in the morning, spotting that the indicator lights on the grey box were not lit. He had no idea what the computer thingy inside the box did, but he did know enough from his training to recognise that if it didn’t have its lights on then the power was off. There was a Procedure’s Manual system for the weekend duty staff to follow in that instance and he was following it. Sadly, the protocol in the manual did not include checking that the incidents display map board was still working, and why should it? After all the map display was supposed to be on the fully magic run side of the system so, with a form of admittedly flawed semi-logic, the people writing the manuals for computer users to follow had overlooked any need to check any processes other than those directly concerning the computer itself.

Consequently, when the alert had come in from Bristol, Ambrose’s current, and immediate issue, was trying to use the external telephone to report the power outage fault. He had not used a muggle telephone very often, despite having a permit to do so. The fact he was using it, and failing to get past the electricity supplier’s appalling on-hold music before the system timed out on him, was not assisting with his temper. Where he wanted to be was down the corridor trying to persuade the delightful Devinia that she really did love him as much he loved and adored her. Not only that, as they both had Sunday off this weekend, she should really come home with him when both their shifts ended at 6pm. 

The result, after a third misdialled phone connection and another half an hour of pointless muggle hold line music, was that at 13:43, and over two hours after the systems had failed, he delegated sorting out the power repair job to his own office junior. After delegating the task he skived off and, as for the Bristol alert it disappeared, unnoticed, like steam in a breeze. Ambrose’s trip was ostensibly to the canteen for his lunch-break. In reality he was taking a sandwich along the corridor to patch things up with Devinia who had come in to do some unpaid overtime and, and as she had also changed her mind about last night’s argument, also hopefully to get noticed by Ambrose. As this was a tactic that for both of them had proved successful they were soon in a passionate-clinch and becoming somewhat oblivious as to the passage of time.

Ambrose’s junior, one Dolores Umbridge, was a weird little witch not long out of Hogwarts, besotted with cats and anything pink. She had been flattered by getting her appointment letter a couple of months earlier. She’d applied for the post whilst still at Hogwarts and looking for a job to start after she’d taken her NEWTS. Getting the Ministry owl, whilst she was still at the school had given her a few status points within her shallow social circle. She was vain enough to think the lowly clerical position was the greatest job offer ever. In reality, due to both her, and the interviewer, lacking good conversational skills it hadn’t been a good interview. The outcome was that, although Dolores hadn’t realised it when she got the Ministry owl bringing her the offer letter, she was the third-choice candidate. 

Both the candidates initially chosen ahead of her had turned down the job: Hannah Goldstein, because she felt that Ambrose Campbell was an anti-Semitic misogynist, and she wouldn’t demean herself by working for the man., Theodore Smith, a muggle born West Indian, had squirmed when Ambrose, seeing from Theodore’s CV work listed as a paper-boy, asked where he’d been employed as a boy. From the way he’d said “Boy” Theodore believed this to be the older meaning; not what he had done as a child employee at a corner newsagent’s in Brixton. Although Theodore managed to control himself enough to finish the interview without incident, he knew he wasn’t going to work for a racist - however much he needed a job.

Campbell, in turn, was from a family that for the last nine successive generations (and notwithstanding whatever had gone on previously in the family tree) had only married pure-blood partners. The consequence was that he was not muggle savvy, the words of Chattanooga Choo Choo, had completely passed him by, and he hadn’t even been aware of the racist overtones behind his use of the word ‘Boy’. Dolores, in turn, was either oblivious to his staring at her breasts throughout the interview, or had seen this blatant example of male gaze and taken it as flattery! 

Thus it was that Dolores Umbridge had taken the job, and once in post considered herself to be Ambrose Campbell’s personal PA. As for Ambrose, he rarely noticed her amongst the other members of the clerical team and when, on the few occasions he did, he just thought her to be a junior skivvy!


	3. At the Zoo – the afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Bristol things are rapidly evolving; both inside and outside the Zoo,

13:08. Saturday – Outside the Reptile House, Bristol Zoo.

Of course I was oblivious to all that was going on elsewhere having, no knowledge of either the Daily Prophet or that there was even a Ministry of Magic. I was now outside the Reptile House and behind me was the outer wall of the Zoo’s complex. This wall was white washed, very solid looking, and too high to climb. In front of me the Zoo’s security team were somewhat half-heartedly using a litter picking stick to poke the bushes in the hope the boa constrictor would reveal itself. Alongside the bushes was the ice-cream hut, the narrow gap behind it which I had now squeezed myself into and, a bit further along again, a block of toilets and the Butterfly House.

The boa constrictor was safely curled up underneath the ice-cream concession - it was me that the security would spot if they had any wits about them. Luckily wits and general common sense were lacking in this pair; these were at the more robust end of the security industry’s range of operatives. Give them a nice, tasty, Bristol City versus Rovere, Swindon Town or Millwall football game to patrol with all the fervent rivalry and hostility and they’d be fine assets for the job: even standing around outside a nightclub on a Friday night in the typical sharp suited garb of the Door Enforcement Team, they’d be effective. In a Zoo looking for a runaway snake they were as much use as a chocolate fireguard. Terrified of the snake, after a few cursory stick pokes, they radioed in an all clear in their sector and power walked it back to the main entrance. 

The boa constrictor’s head then emerged from under the ice cream hut.  
“Call me Philippe.” he announced first, then “You may not know it but you’ve got the touch. Pick me up, put me in your pocket and let’s get out of here.”  
In for a penny in for a pound I thought.  
My instant “Ok” was startling to me.  
With no idea as to how I was going to achieve this miracle of compression I reached down and found the snake shrinking. I grabbed him and, as requested, put him into my pocket. I moved as stealthily as I could towards the toilets guessing that as the last one out someone, at some point would perhaps look at any CCTV there might be. By walking out onto the main path from near the toilets if there was to be any follow up that might confuse them enough to think I had just been inside doing what you do in a toilet block. Sure enough security did ask me, as I got to the exit point, where had I been and why was I so much behind everyone else. My reply was easy-  
“On the bog mate; stomach upset.”1  
This seemed to satisfy them and they let is go, surprisingly without even bothering to routinely record my name, age and address,. We were soon away from the exit doors and fading into the crowds milling about outside.

However mad it seemed as an idea, once outside and there was a quiet space, I was going to have to work out how to resize Philippe and determine what to do with him, to say nothing of the questions I was intending to ask. I shimmied my way through the crowd and out on the grass-lawned area beyond the car park. That, when we got there, the lawns weren’t quiet was a blessing in disguise. It gave us some cover and a little bit of time.  
I was already beginning to feel like a fugitive and, as they always say in books, the best place to hide is in open sight. I saw a bus on the nearest stop with Temple Meads, the central railway station for Bristol, on the destination panel and boarded as that was the route my return bus ticket covered. Although, I was oblivious to the fact there even was a Ministry of Magic, it therefore got us away well before the MLE’s team of Aurors arrived at the Zoo.

14:31. Saturday – Bristol Zoo

Luckily for the Ministry their contact at the Zoo was still an active snout, working in the time honoured, if old fashioned way. Out in the muggle world the role might have been given the new grandiose title of Covert Intelligence Operative, but snout was it really was. Dorothy Cobbold was a squib and after being overlooked by Hogwarts had gone through the local comprehensive school system emerging as a bitter and twisted, nosy, calculating, bitch who enjoyed, no revelled would be more like it, in garnering gossip and rumour. She thrived on sneaking about the Zoo eavesdropping on both staff and visitors and would then spin the overheard snippets around, trying to match them into compromising order before selling them on to either Rita Skeeter of the Daily Prophet, the Ministry or the Bristol Post, the local muggle paper. 

Dorothy was fully aware of the potential of this afternoon’s blend of apparent magical vandalism, a missing giant snake, and the coincidence of the ‘boy-who-lived’ having been at the scene when it had all kicked off. She estimated it had to be worth at least a galleon from the Prophet, and around half-past two she sent owls off to both the Ministry and Rita. 

15:00. Saturday – The Administration Suite, Bristol Zoo.

The initial search of the grounds found nothing to suggest where the snake had gone. The consequence, everyone took a short break and when the full-scale investigation process resumed in mid-afternoon the Zoo’s CCTV recordings were checked and found to be coincidentally weird. There weren’t that many cameras, and the picture quality was not particularly good, but at least there was some CCTV evidence. Across the Zoo most cameras were still working and recording normally, but not the camera inside the Reptile House. The one inside the Reptile House, and therefore nearest to the area of interest, had captured the family with the three boys walking towards the boa constrictor’s compartment then failed and, roughly concurrent with that the one covering the open area outside, had also failed. When the tapes were viewed there was enough still on the tape for them to be fairly sure they knew when the snake had got out of its tank but how. It was also obvious they would at least at a later date be able to match the movements of the people with the statements taken at the time from witnesses. They were quickly aware though that there was nothing showing the escape’s aftermath. 

With regard to my actions there were some less than helpful notes made by the Security Guards a few hours after it was all over and not much else. They hadn’t jotted anything down at the time, although, one of them did, eventually, remember that the bloke who was last out during the site’s evacuation had said he’d been slow because he’d been in the toilets, but they had nothing to use to try to destroy the story I’d given. In the rush to get people evacuated quickly they hadn’t even taken my name and address for possible future reference. Consequently the security guys at the Zoo, and in the following days also the local police and the Ministry of Magic’s team from the Magical Law Enforcement Office (MLE), took no further action, either then or for some considerable time afterwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) ‘Bog’, UK colloquial slang for toilet/lavatory


	4. Meanwhile elsewhere….

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edgar and the Philippe reach Bristol City centre – more is revealed.

14:50. Saturday – Clarence Road, Bristol City Centre

Bristol, as an old port City, is one of those urban places where, even in the City centre you are never far from water. After a short walk from the bus stops outside the railway station I turned into a street facing a tidal arm of the Avon with a bench or two backing onto the road. There was nowhere for Philippe to expand but he was happy enough to talk from inside my pocket and, with the traffic noise, it wasn’t as if I was going to be overheard by anyone in nearby buildings.

My brain was frying: here I am, twenty two year old Edgar Huntspill, talking to a snake. Not only that, I had just stolen the aforesaid snake from Bristol Zoo, about the most mahusive snake that there is, and I was now carrying him shrunk into my jacket pocket! At the time I had assumed Philippe must have done some kind of magic trick. Given all of that a frying brain was understandable.

“So Philippe” I said “have you got a clue what’s going on and what the f**k do we do now?”  
“You’re like that boy, maybe some sort of wizard, but you do seem too old to not be trained already. I don’t know that much about magic and wizards but…”  
“What do you mean a wizard!” I interrupted.  
“Like I said. I don’t know much being Zoo born and raised” Philippe replied calmly, “ but what we, that is snakes, know is that some wizards descended from the ancient family of Salazar Slytherin can talk to us and understand us. The tongue is a rare gift and you have it.”  
“But how can I be a wizard, I don’t know magic.”  
“You must do. I mean, how did you shrink me and fit me into your pocket? I can’t do shrinking if I could I’d have hidden back there at the Zoo. Immediately after that boy had removed the glass I saw you and just knew you that you could do magic too”, Philippe responded.  
“But, I…”  
“ You followed me so something about you must be magical, and, incidentally, you have the right aura”, he quickly interrupted.  
Then, after a short pause while was I trying to get my head around this whole totally weird experience, he spoke again.  
“Now about Brazil.” He takes a beat.  
“If you can get me down the river nearer the mouth then at high tide it will be cover enough for the Mer-people to meet me and get me on my way.”

Just as the idea of a talking snake and wizards had been earlier, neither auras nor Mer-people made any sense to me. I’d heard of wizards. That was a given, obviously no-one growing up on the Somerset Levels could avoid knowing about Merlin and the legends of Avalon - but I’d always believed that to be fairy tale stuff and nonsense. I did recall though that whenever I’d talked about the legends as a kid my Mum had warned me about stirring up forces best left sleeping. I was beginning to think she might have known stuff she’d never let on to me about and that, perhaps, she should have!

In turn that made me wonder a bit more about my odd-ball of a mother. She’d been born during the war and found as an abandoned baby in the porch of St Peter’s and All Hallows, in West Huntspill. The vicar and his wife took her in, but with the war on she never got formally adopted. As she was an unknown orphan they had to give her a name, choosing Annie, and the surname of Huntspill. At the end of the war they used the confusion surrounding displaced persons to somehow manage to get her issued with formal papers. She never did find out who her own birth parents had been. In turn she also became a free spirit, all she knew of my father was he was someone she’d met up with, briefly, at the Isle of Wight festival in 1968. The pregnancy had been unexpected but she’d done all right for me in her own scatter-brained way. 

Sadly she’d passed whilst I’d been away at Uni and by then my friends and my job were in London so I stayed on after graduating. 

The fact I’d been in the Zoo today was pure coincidence.


	5. The Aurors finally arrive.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the evening evolves, things begin to change as the Ministry of Magic finally gets into action. On the basis of ‘better late than never’ an auror team is eventually despatched to Bristol.

17:38 - MLE Mail Room – London 

Eventually the Ministry bound owl did reach Campbell’s office in London. It had taken over three hours to fly up from Bristol, which for an owl was exceptionally good going. However, this period of lost time before the alarm was raised at the Ministry was proving to be the game changer for Phillipe’s future prospects of freedom.

When the owl did arrive, as per the incoming mail protocol, it flew to Dolores Umbridge as the on-duty mail clerk. She was on the phone, saw the owl arrive and gave it a treat, before taking the message slip from its leg, and dropping it unread into her in-tray. The timing was unfortunate, unused to using the telephone, she had not mastered the chin/shoulder manoeuvre that enables both hands to be free, nor picked up the ability to read and listen simultaneously. Activities, as muggles we do without particular thought.

All she felt capable of managing one-handed, whilst listening to the endlessly repeating Vivaldi hold-music being played on the electricity company switchboard, was unrolling the message. It was therefore another twenty-four minutes before she got to speak to anyone and (a) the power company finally agreed to send someone to check the system and (b) Dolores deigned to read the message from Bristol. As an alert reader you will, of course, have noticed that with Dolores’ typical, casual, incompetence, the message had consequently remained unread and unprocessed during those twenty-four minutes. 

It was therefore 18:02 before the message was officially recorded as having entered the Ministry. It is also why, after the event, you can’t always believe what it says in the files. Dolores stapled the standard incoming post cover sheet to it, speed read the message content and spotted the name Harry Potter. She immediately decided that if it involved him it was above her pay grade to deal with, that the message needed senior manager’s perusal but, also, if anything was to come of it she wanted in. As it was so close to her shift change she filled in the Action taken box with “Passed to Supervisor” and the Reason box as “Involvement of Harry Potter”. She then rushed down the corridor to give it to Ambrose. He thanked her, put the time, date, and his initials into the Received box, before putting it, unread, into his own in-tray. 

What he’d overlooked in his haste to get away were, firstly, that the message could not have been logged in to the messages database, as that was one of the systems still down from lack of power, and that secondly this was a weekend shift change. He wasn’t going to be in tomorrow ( Sunday) anyway, that was part of his normal weekend off, but had also, temporarily, forgotten that he had Monday off too. The Ministry rarely paid overtime, simply swapping shifts around to balance out the working on a normal rest day. The consequence, of course, that unless he physically passed it on to the incoming evening shift team, it would stay unnoticed until he came back in on Tuesday morning. 

Ambrose was still more concerned with matters surrounding his on/off relationship with Divinia than with his Ministry tasks, consequently, although not then appreciating it, Ambrose had just made two highly significant, and critical, mistakes. It was these that were later to get him moved sideways to a safer role writing the Ministry’s new HQ Car Parking Permits Scheme report. 

Dolores, on any other day might have noticed this slip her boss had made, but, due mainly to Ambrose’s romantic interest in her fellow clerk, she disliked Divinia intensely. Her sole aim was to get away from him and back to her desk as fast as she could. As the clock hit 18:00 she grabbed her coat and hand-bag and took the stairs down to the lobby to avoid any possible further contact with her boss. Not long afterwards she was on platform 9½ at Kings Cross waiting for the 18:30 Hogwarts Rail service out to her parents house in Hitchin. Even in the wizarding world the price of London flats is out of the reach of junior office clerks.

As for the alert message, it sat where it had been placed, unread and, for the moment at least, out of sight and out of mind. The alarms map was, of course, also still disconnected from the power feed and unresponsive.

18:32. Saturday – Ministry of Magic HQ (London).

The Magical Law Enforcement office and their Aurors were finally alerted to the incident around 18:30 when Rita Skeeter rang the Minister of Magic’s Press Office to ask for a quote for the Sunday edition of the Daily Prophet on ‘Why has the ‘boy who lived’ been allowed to free a dangerous Zoo snake without any apparent follow up from the Magical Law Enforcement Office?” That a turmoil of cyclonic proportions then ensued is just to state the blindingly obvious!

18:47 Saturday – The Reptile House and grounds Bristol Zoo.

The MLE’s team of Aurors finally arrived at Bristol Zoo after apparating in from London. To merge with the local police they decided to use a cover story of working as part of a specialist government Animal Welfare Unit investigating animal escapes. After introducing themselves to both the Zoo authorities and the local uniforms they began a brief examination of the scene. As their initial investigations established that there were some inconsistencies they agreed to return and complete their analysis on Sunday morning. The team finished on site on Sunday afternoon and headed back to London.

As I am your narrator for this story, obviously I wasn’t there. What I can say though is that the CCTV tapes would have been a lot more helpful to the MLE if I had not, fortuitously, been just out of shot at the moment the Reptile House camera failed and stopped recording. Hardly my fault, but that’s the way the dice had fallen. The MLE and muggle police teams trawled painstakingly through every minute of every recording made that day by the CCTV cameras. The result was they were, ultimately, able to identify most people’s movements on site during Saturday, including me; however, in the absence of either good quality photographs or the names and addresses for the visitors it wasn’t a great help. 

Philippe, unsurprisingly given what we know but they don’t, did not show up once on the tapes after escaping from the vivarium. Unfortunately, to the real concern of the Ministry investigation team, neither was there any known witch or wizard, other than Harry Potter, identified as being in Bristol Zoo at the time. 

The Ministry of Magic is merely the latest iteration of a haughty, arrogant and isolationist, tradition dating back to the seventeenth century. Whilst The Folly were aware that there was a wizarding tradition Isaac Newton’s early experiments back then had so scared the wizarding world of the time they’d erected barriers and shut out most of the demi-monde. The rest of society they just classed as muggles, to be contemptuously dismissed as inferior. This inherent elitism had already led to one war, and, although they were not yet aware of it the undercurrents of the second were already coming together.

Having only just learnt that magic was real, I was obliviously unaware of its three forms. There was the earthly, which I was in due course to discover was my own power source, the natural as taught at Hogwarts, and Newtonian. The Folly was the last bastion of the Newtonian tradition and these days and integral part of the Metropolitan Police Force. Members of The Folly are fully aware of the existence of the earthly, which it regards as the demi-monde, with fae as a broad-brush terminology for practitioners. Newtonian magic is a crafted, solely taught, codified format; although the magical root for both the other two forms are inherently natural the power is best aided by being channelled and moulded. In my case that tuition was to come later. 

As a result of this investigation the MLE concluded (correctly of course as that other person of magical interest was me) that they were not aware of every practicing UK magician and wizard. This also blew a gaping hole in their extremely painstaking, and much-lauded, system of logging every magical child born in the UK into the Hogwarts recruitment system. The point of it was so that the children could then be sent their invitation letter at age 11; like so many fully automated systems, even magical one’s, it was not as fool-proof as they thought it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The distance from Bristol Zoo into central London is approximately 120 miles by road today. Even by car 2hrs:30 would be good with 3hrs+ more likely in summer Saturday traffic.
> 
> For fictional purposes this message owl was therefore managing about 40 mph (65 kph). This is possible, but unlikely over such a long distance in the muggle world, however, these are magically enhanced owls. 
> 
> Great Horned Owls "....They are able to fly about 40 miles pr hour when necessary. However, they will often fly at a speed around 30 miles per hour....." Source = https://www.owlworlds.com/great-horned-owl/


	6. Release to the wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippe is released, and a local river goddess unexpectedly discovers that her long-lost cousin is in the area.

20:30. Saturday – The Portway, Sea Mills – Bristol

I took another bus ride out towards Avonmouth, during which I was anxious that someone would spot Philippe as a bulge in my pocket. As I could see we were approaching a likely release point I rang the bell and got off at the bus at the next stop. Luckily the stop was not far from the place I had seen and wasn’t a great distance to walk back.

Also fortuitous, as I hadn’t even considered the possibility of being within the coverage area of one of the new CCTV zones being rolled out across the country, there wasn’t any CCTV here, nor was any of the adjacent housing directly overlooking the site I’d spotted. This close to the mid-summer solstice, and so soon after the summer solstice (21st June), it was still broad daylight and anyone in the passing traffic would see what I was doing. I waited until it seemed there was an adequate lull between vehicles, then leant forward against the railing. I slipped Philippe from my pocket, hoping I was shielding him from view as he expanded. Despite the sound of more vehicles passing behind me, the noises remained normal and predictable: there were no shouts, no squealing of brakes or, worse, the sound of an approaching siren. 

He dropped into the sliver of open land and scrub separating the main Portway road from the river at Sea Mills and resized.  
“Thanks mate, so long, farewell.”  
My “It was a pleasure, Philippe. You take care now. Bon voyage.” Seemed trite. 

With a flip of his tail as a goodbye he entered the water and, as the tide was high enough to miss the mud banks, he slipped down the tidal stub of the River Trym and on into the Avon and away. After shedding a brief tear, I was left with a raging headache and the hope that it might all have been a nightmare. 

I also had to get back home, just managing to get a bus back to Temple Meads in time to catch the last London train.

* * *  
Philippe was luckier than he could ever have envisaged. The Mer people somehow found there was shortly to be a boat outward bound for the Rio-Grande: just over three weeks later he was back in Brazil and heading for the hills.

* * *  
Equally fortuitously, Sabrina the Severn’s river goddess, was fully occupied well away up stream beyond Shrewsbury where she was currently concerned with trying to stop some unauthorised piling works. As the tide was falling, and carrying Philippe down-stream with it, she hardly noticed the slight tingle as the magic took its effect.

* * *

As for the deities of the more local rivers, the Avon and Trym, it had been a lucky choice of release point. Old William, ‘call me Bill’, Avon, had been scarred by the Romans, and then so battered by all the changes and reconfigurations made to his water course in constructing the Bristol Docks, he spends most of his time these days up on the Downs. If you ever meet him, just don’t mention Brunel! The clear, fresh water, babbling over the chalk land up there constantly soothes his aches and pains, he rarely notices anything these days down in his tidal reaches, and leaves anything he does notice for Sabrina to resolve.

As for Jenny Trym she was as sharp as a butcher’s knife. She felt the magic tingles, sensed the presence of another riverine entity and the tang of the Zoo. That sharpness gave her an idea of who it might be, and what the creature was that was being released. As for the creature it felt long, smooth and slippery, it had to be a big snake; she wasn’t a lover of snakes. As for the caster she could sense he was male, detecting a blend of willow beds and reeds, slow flowing water, warmth, grapes and old oak barrels, all overlaid with a salty tang. 

He was probably one of her distant cousins, there was enough recognisable to assess that, but not a regular visitor. She guessed he might possibly be Annie’s lad, unexpectedly back in the area, but, as Sabrina didn’t seem to be bothered, decided to let it pass - Oh yes, no doubt about it, had Sabrina been alarmed then Jenny, and every other river in her catchment area, would have known about it soon enough!

Jenny had been soured towards the Zoo by a few past issues with watercourse pollution, another reason to just let things rest. She had to trust her cousin. She’d no idea why an unknown deity was in the area or, assuming it was Annie’s lad, why he was dropping a live Zoo snake into her river, but she guessed he must know what he was doing.

All things considered, she decided she was neither going to make a fuss, nor get involved with it, whatever it was. What she didn’t know then was that she was to be involved after all; however, it wasn’t until later that the various strands converged and pulled her into the web.

22:40. Saturday – somewhere in the Vale of the White Horse

Safely ensconced in the comfort of an Inter-City 125 train rushing back to London through the slowly darkening twilight, I was unaware of either this riverine inactivity or Philippe’s outstandingly good fortune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not checked what time the last train from Bristol to London would have run in 1991. The timing shown fits the story line, if you should know from local knowledge that it is false please overlook the error.


	7. Monday’s aftermath (Magical)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auror Investigation Incident Report No. 230691/1 Vern 1.0 is written.

**Monday 24th June – Magical Law Enforcement Office. London _Auror Investigation Incident Report No. 220691/1 Vern 1.0_**

**Report on accidental release of snake at Bristol Zoo, together with a disappearing glass tank wall.**

**Background** – At 18:32 on 22nd June 1991 the Ministry Legal Enforcement Office was made aware that earlier in the day at approximately 13:02 a boa constrictor snake had been released from its vivarium at Bristol Zoo, apparently by the use of magic, and that, furthermore, the said snake had subsequently disappeared. Initial findings: Due to the incident having taken place in such a public place the Ministry of Magic had, albeit belatedly, sent a field team to investigate on the Saturday in question. After inspecting the location the away team were soon puzzled. They learnt within only a few minutes of their arrival firstly, that one of the three boys at the scene was a recorded under-age wizard and, shortly afterwards, the fact that the person concerned was no-less a celebrity than Harry Potter, aka ‘the boy who lived’. Once they knew he was present, the accidental junior magic Harry had managed to achieve was sensed and dismissed as an MLE crime. From a magical perspective therefore the disappearing glass was able to be dismissed as just a minor part of an incident of accidental magic cast by a known junior, namely Harry Potter. From an MLE perspective that would normally have been that: no magical crime committed - incident closed.

 **Complications:** Due to issues delaying the start of investigative work by the MLE Auror team on site, the elapsed time was now around five and a half hours. Normally, even with that delay, the investigation would have been closed after that short period on site by the field team. That it wasn’t, was due partly to the fact that, despite all the location finding techniques used by both the Zoo staff and the MLE investigators the snake was still missing and now presumed to be off site, but primarily because other magic had been sensed around the scene. Magic used by unidentified practitioner: It was clear to the MLE field team that some very strong magic had been cast by an, as yet, unidentified person, being, or entity. The surviving CCTV tapes didn’t help much; and consequently the “Untouchables” were asked on Sunday morning to also apparate an investigative team in to try and get a feel for the magic used. This second investigative team also failed to find a match in the Ministry registers to any of the material sensed on site.

 **Interaction with muggles:** Due to the evacuation of the site immediately after the incident the option to obliviate memories amongst the zoo visitors was not possible, even had it been required. The aurors established a cover story regarding Animal Welfare with the local officialdom and believe this to have been successful. _The Statute of Secrecy_ is considered not to have been irrevocably breached during this incident; however, it is felt that a follow up visit to obliviate the memories of the muggle members of the Potter group will be worthwhile.

 **Public relations** : This incident created some press suppression complications as the _Daily Prophet_ had also learnt he had been there and their reporter Rita Skeeter, was already on site asking questions by the time the Ministry aurors arrived. As it transpired the press angle regarding the Bristol element was adequately managed as they were more interested in the issues covered in related report 220691/2. _The Quibbler_ , was not represented at the scene. It is a weekly news sheet, published on a Friday, and consequently did not run any material on it until their next edition.

 **Conclusions** :

(1) MLE team confirm that the initial incident (namely release of the snake) was a non-criminal use of accidental magic by the minor, Harry Potter; furthermore, it is not believed that he was responsible for removal of the snake from the site after the glass disappeared.

(2) After due liaison the MLE teams confirm that no muggle criminal charges are pending against said Harry Potter; however, a follow up visit to obliviate the memories of the muggles who were with the Potter group should be arranged urgently.

(3) An, as yet unidentified, individual fully capable of producing strong magic, is operating in the UK completely unknown to the Ministry of Magic and this person had been in Bristol Zoo on Saturday, 22nd June. As the whereabouts of the snake remain unknown it is not known if this individual was involved in it’s post-release disappearance; however, this is strongly suspected.

(4) All circumstances surrounding the unknown magician must be investigated fully, and if necessary, by somehow finding a way for the MLE to work jointly with the muggle police investigations. (5) This report is solely into the Bristol Zoo boa constrictor release and subsequent theft/escape of said snake. Readers should also note the following related enquiries:-

• 220691/2, Examination of the failure of internal MLE systems and procedures on the day,

• 220691/3, Examination of the necessity to review, and reappraise, the roles and responsibilities of several personnel members as a result of their actions on Saturday 23rd June 1991,

• 220691/4, Assessment of the need for a future investigation into the possibility of magical practitioners openly operating in Britain without the knowledge and sanction of the Ministry.

Signed Amelia Bones, Field Investigations Officer 2nd Grade. 24th June 1991. Magical Law Enforcement Office, London.

* * *

08:32 A breakfast table in Hitchin. The arrival of a post owl with the family copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was a routine and regular occurrence in the Umbridge household. Like many men, Augustus Umbridge, first looked at the back pages being more interested in the result of the big Quidditch match than anything in the news. At this point in the morning Dolores, his daughter, although out of bed and showering, was blissfully unaware of the upcoming furore. After seeing the headline announcing a rare Chudley Cannons victory in the Founders Cup he took his time reading the match review. It actually took him longer to read the report than the match had lasted; against the odds, the Chudley Cannons had beaten Pride of Portree by 50:0 in the shortest time for a match ever recorded; apparently the Cannons seeker spotted and grabbed the snitch after only 47 seconds!

Even after he had turned the paper over and read the front page it was a further few minutes before he spotted Rita Skeeter’s by-line and the short article about a possible Ministry cover-up regarding the boy who lived’s rare public appearance in Bristol coinciding with a missing dangerous snake. It was at this point that he bellowed upstairs to Dolores, rather rudely suggesting that as she’d been working the Saturday shift she’d better get her arse into gear pronto’ and into work as the shit might be about to hit the fan.

To be fair to Dolores, after she had read the item for herself, she did recall that some of Saturday’s action, or inaction depending on your viewpoint, might have been related to the matter in Rita’s Prophet report. She was also naturally nosey, if something was going down she wanted to know about is, so, despite being officially on her day-off, she was dressed, and on her way back to the office within half an hour.

08:43 A bedroom in Godric’s Hollow.

Unlike Dolores, Ambrose was comfortable with apparition and lived out of town in the wizarding community of Godric’s Hollow. He’d taken Davinia back with him after work on Saturday; their amorous reconciliation had lasted right through Saturday night and on through Sunday before she’d finally left for her own flat about midnight. The result was he had taken a sleeping draught just before 1am and was now spark out to the world. The post-owl which had delivered his copy of the Prophet was in for a long wait on his window cill; nothing was going to raise him from his slumber for at least another couple of hours.

10:00 The MLE Office, London.

Amelia Bones signed off her report at 10:00am, and it was fast tracked up to the Minister of Magic. The summary and conclusions were sufficiently concerning that by 10:45am a meeting of Senior Aurors and members of the Wizengamot Security Committee had been called by Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, to be held not in a briefing room but in the Minister’s own office; a rare occurrence indeed.

10:45 Monday 24th June – Minister of Magic’s Office. London

The Ministry was proud of its traditions and systems; there should not be unknown persons operating with magic. Cornelius Fudge was adamant that they needed to know how it had occurred and, furthermore, that the possibility that there were unrecorded wizards and/or other magicians operating outside Ministry jurisdiction must be investigated fully. If necessary, this investigation must somehow encompass working with the muggle police too. The initial internal enquiry into Ministry systems and procedures, for out of hours working, must also be given priority. It is fair to say that Cornelius Fudge was not a happy bunny. The Office of The Minister of Magic became a hive of activity, with that activity soon being replicated across the whole building. It was into this flurry of flying memos and heads popping in and out of fire places, with associated clouds of choking green flue-powder fumes, that Dolores walked into on her arrival. She immediately realised her father had been correct, it had not only hit the fan it was being flung far and wide with tremendous velocity.

After letting colleagues know she was in the building if needed she set off for the canteen to try and glean some of the anticipated gossip.


	8. Connections are made (Riverine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lengthy chapter to conclude Part 1 in which Edgar meets the Thames’ goddesses and finally discovers what he is.
> 
> As at 27 June 2019.
> 
> Part 2 Chapters 9 through 15 are in various states of completion.
> 
> Part 3 - what will be the final follow up to this story is already on line. see = What's it with babies.

8:42am Monday 24th June – London - The offices of Milton & Co. 

The snake story had been big news throughout the whole of Sunday on all the media outlets. It soon got to the point I had switched off both my radio and TV. Every news bulletins cut to on site reporters in Bristol spouting meaningless drivel about where the snake might be hiding. Luckily none of them was suggesting it had been smuggled out of the Zoo and released into the river.

Today was turning out to be even worse. On the tube coming in it had been bad enough. I’d been forced to listen to my random co-commuters talking about the missing snake. I wanted to join in, give Philippe’s side of the story, but couldn’t. At least I knew he hadn’t been caught. My lift ride up to our offices on the fourth floor had been even worse. Packed in with colleagues, all of them talking of nothing else. Finally reaching the sanctuary of my office, I shut the door.  
The peace and quiet was to be short-lived, I had to open my door eventually, it was usually open, as Section Supervisor keeping an ear open for what was happening in the open-plan office outside is the expected norm’. Here at Milton’s any change from normality soon becomes a matter of gossip. I’m not implying that my team don’t work hard, they do, it is just that when someone from another section comes in there’s always a bit of banter – today’s banter, again all about Philippe’s escape. Usually it pays me to listen, not so today. 

* * *

What with the constant background clatter of office machines, and the banter I was trying to shield out, by 12:00 I’d a raging headache. The pressure of constantly having to keep schtum and supress my own part in it was getting very stressful, I had to get out of the office. We have flexitime, I don’t have to keep my section fully crewed during the day but collectively we tend to do so, it helps with covering the phones. We aren’t the front-line sales team for Milton’s but do, sometimes, need to feed facts back to Sales to help them process customer enquiries. It pays to be quick responders, after all’s said and done, the company’s sales are what drives our bonuses.

“Are you all Ok if I grab an early lunch today team? Feeling a bit rough.”  
“You OK Boss?” came back from a few.  
“Just a migraine coming on. Need some peace and quiet.”  
That got the expected round of nods and within minutes I was out in the street, just walking to clear my head. I found myself taking the alleys and side streets for their quietness, and eventually was in Rising Sun Court, heading for the Cloth Fair. 

I often lunched in the Rising Sun, not today though. I couldn’t face the noise and alcohol fuelled bonhomie of fellow office workers endlessly re-hashing the events of their weekend. Round here work hard – play hard remained the battle anthem of many; it is only during the mornings that the truly important and serious work gets done. What a dichotomy, for once my own weekend had been truly memorable, but I couldn’t talk about it. I kept on walking.

12:35pm Monday 24th June - St Bartholomew’s Church 

As I turned the corner past the old church it began to rain. The sort of heavy rain that arrives in summertime without warning, rain that forces you to seek shelter, big drops out of what minutes earlier had been clear blue sky. Quickly turning to duck under the arch of the old gatehouse, I notice the simple chalked blackboard message, OXFAM, soup and a roll. Today until 3pm. 

This wasn't a church I'd ever been inside. I’m not atheist, just not very church orientated. My mother was a foundling, an abandoned baby raised by the local vicar and his wife, but she’d not followed them into deep religious belief. No she’d grown into too flighty a teenager for that, consequently church going hadn’t been a part of my growing up. I appreciate the showpiece churches, how can you not be awed by such fine specimens of architectural splendour, but the hubbub and thronging weight of tourists has never encouraged in me any thoughts of seeking active religious participation. 

Inside this one though it was cool, dark, musty. The air filled with that odd mix of stone dust, candles and religious spices; the ancient smell of old churches everywhere. A murmur of conversation was coming from a room on my right, obviously where the soup could be had. The second blackboard on a simple A frame with a chalked arrow was confirmation. 

Before entering this side aisle I looked round, this building felt powerful. It didn't have the hustle and bustle of either Westminster Abbey or St Paul's; the last two churches I'd been in. Old bible stories, presumably remembered from school, slide into my mind; perhaps unsurprising given the setting, but unusual for me all the same. Also surprising, given the deep theological significance to the thoughts, I begin to wonder how the big show churches are managing to escape the wrath of God. The bible story, so unexpectedly remembered from somewhere in my past, was of Jesus entering the Temple and trashing the moneylenders’ side stalls.

A couple from the office had followed me into the church, I didn’t know their names but recognised them as being somewhat giggly clerks from the Accounts Section. Not wanting to appear odd I followed them through into a corridor like section of the old church cloisters. When you worked at Milton’s, it didn’t pay to stand out, or appear too different, the gossip mill was vicious. The fact I’d come into this church and, when my two work colleagues had arrived, was apparently actually looking round it rather than just grabbing a meal, was probably already enough for me to be the feature of their afternoon’s gossip. 

Small details were seeming to take on a significance the longer I spent in the building. I begin to notice how the roof is lower here and arched, this cloister, unlike the stone and dungeon like entry corridor, is well lit and warm. The serving table is on the right and behind it a handful of women - a couple of Afro-Caribbeans, one taking the money the other buttering the bread rolls, and an older white woman actually ladling out the soup. Standing alongside, and not appearing to be doing much, and therefore probably the Supervisor, I notice that there is another black woman. Saying she was statuesque was probably an understatement, powerful would be more accurate, and she knew it, she’d definitely dressed to accentuate it. Looking back at the day this awareness of my surroundings was out of character, at the time I didn’t pick-up that it was unusual for me.  
“How much?” I asked as I got to the table.  
“Donations. Pay what you want” came the reply. 

OXFAM was a good cause, so I dropped a fiver into the cash bowl, getting a beaming smile back as a response. It was when I’d moved that slight shuffle sideways to my left and was taking the bowl from the white woman that it hit me. Our hands brushed, only briefly, but the wave of power was overwhelming. I felt a surge of water, as if the Niagara Falls were drenching my brain, as if the Thames was in full storm surge, saw London ablaze and felt the heat of the Great Fire. Staggering slightly I nearly dropped the bowl, but luckily it hadn’t yet been filled with soup.

I fought back my instant desire to scream, as quickly as it came the fire disappeared in a flash of bright light. Then darkness, a hand reached out to hold mine, and when my eyes reopened, I’m back in the church. Back in the safety of a traditional mediaeval English Church, sensing the past, the dusty smell of the stonework, tea lights on a black iron frame, offerings of remembrance, prayers of hope. 

In my mind the City had briefly burned, fire lighting up the night sky. Was it a genetic memory, passed down the generations ready to burst force as a nightmarish hallucination, ready to stike at an unexpected and unpredicted moment, just like now in fact! Perhaps I’d eaten something, had my mid-morning cookies hidden something stronger than white chocolate and sultanas? Some of the festivals and parties I’ve been at - oh yes the muffins there had definitely been spiced with hallucinogenic substances - but today’s commercially bought cookies, unlikely. 

My mind by now is racing. I think about this weirdness a bit more, from the small baker’s shop in Glastonbury; yes, possibly, but not from the kiosk on the station. The exotic things to be found back home in Bridgwater always seemed to involve Carnival, light bulbs, and lots of them too - so no, not a legacy of something from Bridgwater. Then with even more clarity I recognise this isn’t my grandparents’ small church in Somerset, I’ve not been back to Somerset in days. This is London: in the City itself, just around the corner from Smithfield, at the back of Barts Hospital. Not just any part of the true City of London either, its the full-on, City core, its true heart, dating back to the Romans and probably further back into the tribal ages too. 

Instinctively my eyes roam the tableau before me, drawn to look deeply into the face of the statuesque African woman: I can see it, feel it, her aura, washing over and around me. Her gaze is penetrating, deeply incisive, the mental connection profound, but the engendered feeling was not cold, her radiance was warm, and strangely satisfying.

….. 

In Somerset, at exactly the same moment, the Huntspill River unexpectedly rises, the pens on the paper rolls recording the flow and levels on the river writhe and squiggle in sympathy. That rise was not enough to create a flood, but it was significant enough to puzzle the local Water Board staff when they looked at the river level records later. Over the forthcoming years these odd, one off, risings were to continue to puzzle and frustrate the river management staff in the various successor bodies responsible for managing the river and its’ ecology. From time from time teams of University geographers and experts in hydrography will be called in to investigate the mysterious phenomenon of the ‘Huntspill rises’: students will analyse it for PHDs,. All this is yet to come, however, despite all the activity that in future times will be thrown at the problem no definitive explanatory reports on the phenomenon will ever be published.

…..

I jerk back to today’s reality, the older, white, lady opposite is speaking to me, quietly but distinctly, possibly with her voice, perhaps by thought transference. Even much later, as I come to write all this up for my diary, I’m not sure how we interacted during this moment of revelation: “You’re a river. Why didn’t you say?”  
My own stumbled, “Pardon, what did you say?” was hardly an adequate response, but understandable in the circumstances.  
She turned to the tall one, “Ty, take over here please, he needs an explanation.”  
The tall younger women nodded, I guessed she was Ty, and the lady, who I now know as Lea Thames, guided me to an empty table.  
As we sat I Mumbled, “River. You said river. What did you mean by - you’re a river?”  
“I’ll explain, but it will take time, so not here. Have your soup then we can go somewhere less public.”  
I looked down the room, fortunately the two Accounts clerks didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss, but then would they have made it obvious even if they had? I hoped that was at least one less panic to worry about. Still feeling stunned I nodded back an “Ok”; again not sure if that gesture of concurrence was made verbally or just something she somehow noted. 

Without really tasting either it or the bread roll I finished my soup, which, for the record, had actually been a rather nice home made lentil and tomato blended with just a hint of added spices matched with a locally baked granary roll and best west-country butter. Still somewhat shell-shocked by the unfolding events I Mumbled “I’m due back in the office in half an hour. Is that enough?” Somewhat surprisingly Lea’s response was “Should be for now.” 

Standing up she headed through into the main church and I followed, feeling rather like a small child following its Mummy to school for the first time. Like that child knowing this is going to be a move onwards to a new phase, a right of passage, a part of growing up, but at the same time fearful of leaving behind the existing. There was a line of arches bordering the Nave with the usual rows of pews. We entered a row and she sat down. I wasn’t a Catholic, this wasn’t even a Roman Catholic church, but as I sat down I instinctively crossed-myself.

After a couple of deep breaths I asked the question I suspected was going to frame the rest of my life “Why did you say I’m a river?”  
“Honest question.” She replied. “Deserves a full and frank answer, so the quick bit first. Rivers have gods or goddesses, you must have heard of Father Thames, well I am Lea Thames, goddess of the River Lea. When I sensed you come in through the door your aura suggested you were different, a quick glance suggested you were probably one of us. As you didn’t acknowledge us I let our hands brush back then and sensed that you felt some of my power, I certainly felt yours. From your reaction I also saw clearly that you weren’t just ignoring us or cutting us dead, you didn't know your power. Have you never felt it, perhaps when swimming, or noticed odd weird occurrences?”

That wasn't really a question I could fudge an answer to, so after a pause, I answered truthfully, “Water related, no. Weird things, yes, I recently either discovered I could talk to snakes, oh yes and shrink things, or that I was suffering random hallucinations. I'm slowly coming round to realising I'm not mad, these odd ball things are real.”  
“You are not hallucinating. I guess you don't know what river you belong to so I will let you know what I sense. When I hold your hand I feel willow beds and reeds, channelled water, a salty tang, sunlight, warm earth, grapes, a hint of berries and old oak barrels, and, faintly, the sound of the Delta Blues. Somewhat mysterious, mostly English, but possibly some Welsh too, plus overseas sensations. Do you know anything about your parents?”  
“Mum yes, my father, no.”  
“Go on.”  
“I know that my Mum, Annie Huntspill, was born during the war and found as an abandoned baby in the porch of St Peter’s and All Hallows, in West Huntspill. The vicar and his wife took her in, but with the war on she never got formally adopted. As an orphan she took the name of Huntspill, eventually getting issued with formal papers, but she never did find out who her own birth parents were. In turn she also became a free spirit, all she knew of my father was he was someone she’d met up with, briefly, at the Isle of Wight festival in 1968. The pregnancy had been unexpected but she’d done all right for me in her own scatter-brained way.“  
We both took that in, silent for a few moments.

“Is there a River Huntspill?” Lea asked, breaking that silence.  
“Now you ask, yes. Man-made during the war to drain the Somerset Levels” I replied. “Do you think Mum was it’s goddess?”  
It took Lea a moment to think before she replied. “I think that is a very strong possibility.”

As my mind was slowly taking that in I could see Lea thinking. She soon added the follow up- “Do you mind if I hazard a guess at you father?”  
“No go ahead, I’m all ears. In for a penny an all that.”  
“If your Mum was at that festival back in ‘68 then in all probability your father was the Douro from Portugal. If I’m sensing things right that is. If so you've got two or three half-sisters and a couple of half-brothers that I know of, and that’s just in Britain. He was, well still is for that matter, a very handsome man, quick witted and with a knack for wooing the ladies, but not for settling down and playing happy families.”

It felt strange, here I am as adult, finally finding out who my birth-father might be, and a totally unexpected shock.“Wow” was all I could mumble in response.  
“You may well find too that your Mum was a daughter of Sabrina Severn and her father an American GI from the south over for the war effort, given that touch of the Delta Blues I detected and, in all probability, a minor river or sea creek. The rivers from the Deep South all seem to be into either the blues or country, you’ve got a touch of the blues.”

The receipt of so much information in so short a time was becoming overpowering; I just sat there, stunned and gob-smacked. Fuck me, I’m a frigging river God, I thought. The consequence, although, at the time my senses were too undeveloped to notice, was that thought sent a second surge down my river. Luckily the resultant overtopping only drenched some marginal land, with no real damage done! Lea patted me on the back, sensing I needed time to myself, to absorb these new revelations. 

*** 

I took ten minutes just sitting there in the church, surrounded by the centuries of visible history, and feeling even more in the ground below me. In less than 48 hours my life had changed irrevocably. I’d talked to a snake, discovered magic was real, and found out for the first time in my life who my father was. The greater significance of becoming a River God, had at this time, not really sunk in.

What had become clear though was the no-brainer decision that going back to the mundane and the office will just have to wait, until at least tomorrow. This is family. Leaving the Church, but knowing I’d shortly be back, I walked the shortish distance across to the old Smithfield Market. There had to be a still connected and working public pay phone there surely?  
Finding one I rang the office. “Hi Brenda”, I mumbled, “My migraine’s got worse over lunch. I hope to be back in tomorrow morning but I can’t face the office this afternoon. I’m knocking off now. I’ll let you know tomorrow if this absence is a sick day, for the record book, or just flexitime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The back story regarding construction of the River Huntspill during WW2 is correct.
> 
> 2) I have tried to make the offices in this story have the feel of what I remember from the early 1990s. PCs were coming in, but still not universal, old school typewriters and adding machines, etc., were still in widespread use in many places until the middle of the decade.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The Zoo’s location in canon is unstated but can’t be London. For a documented reasoning of why not see https://www.hp-lexicon.org/2005/10/24/in-search-of-little-whinging/ I am using Bristol Zoo, as much as anything because I have been there recently, and the Avon and Somerset area fits with other elements I have added to the story.
> 
> 2) Due to errors in several HP wiki timelines the date of the snake's escape was given as 23rd June 1991, a Sunday. However, JKR in Philosopher's Stone clearly states the visit was on a Saturday; it therefore had to be 22nd June. Correction does not change the plot-line of the story but is being done.


End file.
